


Back to Middle Earth Entries 2012

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Back to Middle-Earth Month, Ficlet Collection, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets and drabbles I am writing for Back to Middle-earth Month on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A quality of loss (Elrond, Elros & Maglor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genre Card - Coming of Age 
> 
> Elrond, Elros and Maglor have a chat.

He never _started_ asking questions. (He just never _stopped_.)

Now, he sat next to the fire, with his brother curled next to him, sleeping lightly. As the fire crackled and sparked, Elros woke and stretched, muffling a yawn. He asked, softly, “When’s dinner?”

Elrond ignored him. 

Away from the brothers, Maglor sat -- _brooded_ \-- and watched the fire. 

Elrond watched his _father - distant cousin - kidnapper_ intently, for any sign of...

Well, _anything_. (Remorse, grief, anger, fear?) 

Nothing. 

After what seemed like hours (more likely, minutes) under intense scrutiny, Maglor sighed, a sound as sudden and sharp as a broken harp string. He rarely sang anymore, but music had dug deep in his bones. His voice had always pleasant to hear, at least. 

No. It had not _always_ been so. 

The first time Elrond had heard Maglor's voice, after all, it had rose over the sound of the Havens dying.

 

Maglor’s hands -- long, thin and _strong_ \-- tapped idly on the empty space on his lap, longing for something long gone. 

(On anyone else, his expression, now, would look much like _nervousness_.) 

Finally, he spoke. “What would you like to know?” 

Elrond considered this. 

He felt his brother stir next to him and sit up, attentive. 

(It was Elros’ history too, after all.) 

Erond said, “Everything.” 

 

 

He was still very young. 

He did not know how long it would take, to know everything.


	2. Bread & Music (Maglor & Finrod)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sons of Feanor Card - Maglor and Finrod 
> 
> Maglor is magnificent. Finrod is a fan.

_MUSIC heard with you was more than music,  
And bread I broke with you was more than bread_

 

He listened, rapt, as the music flowed swift and sure, dropping like softened gold into the listener’s ears. But not painfully! Of course, in beauty, as in life, there must be _pain_. Like a scorched thumb, or an ear filled with melted gold.

Finrod sighed dreamily, hands resting on his chin.

(He would have to work harder on his similes.)

+

When the performance was done, Finrod scrabbled to where Maglor was sitting, intent on helping his cousin gather up his things.

“Just amazing, amazing,” he gushed, snatching a sheaf of notes right from under Maglor’s nose.

Maglor gave him a vague smile, as he struggled to remember this one’s name. Golden hair, an enthusiastic expression. So not one of Uncle Fingolfin’s brood, then. One of Finarfin’s boys? Were there three of them? Or was it four? Maglor sighed internally. He had such a lot of young half-cousins running around these days.

_It was difficult to keep them straight._

Finrod sucked in his breath, and thought, _why, he’s probably composing something in that marvelous brain of his right now._ Finrod clutched the sheaf of papers close to his chest, ruining them completely.

_Such genius!_

“Could you teach me how to do that?” The words tumbled out of Finrod’s mouth before he could stop himself. _Oh! Stupid! Stupid! What must he think of me now?_

Maglor stopped what he was doing at the moment -- which was thinking about lunch, and wondering if he could stay over and take a meal here. It was Caranthir’s turn to cook today, and frankly he would rather eat _a boiled cat_ than whatever his brother came up with...

But now he regarded Finrod thoughtfully. “Don’t you take music lessons?” Maglor’s father was always going on about how badly educated this side of the family was -- among their other failings. But surely they knew how to pluck at a harp-string?

Finrod nodded, vehemently, “Of course, yes, but you know, none of my music masters have got the -- _the feel_ that you have for music. _For words_. And I would -- that is to say, _I am --_ ”

Finrod, Maglor knew (yes, it was _Finrod_ , who else could it be) was a terribly earnest young man. He was also frantically helpful, to the point of being quite unhelpful, actually. (Maglor saw, to his dismay, that his notes were quite crushed and would have to be written again.)

But Finrod gave him a hopeful grin.

Well, the boy’s heart was in the right place.

And Maglor’s stomach gave a most unmusical groan. “Perhaps we can talk about it over lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names are as they appear in _The Silmarillion._  Because _I am lazy._ (Title and blurb from Conrad Aiken's poem of the same name.)


	3. Necessity (Nerdanel & Curufin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sons of Fëanor Card - Nerdanel and Curufin 
> 
> Nerdanel goes for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I seem to be writing a lot about the creative process when it comes to the Fëanorians. (Death and destruction will come later, I'm sure.) Maybe it's a way for me to avoid the creative process? (I certainly have a lot of experience in art projects that turn out not quite right.) And then this morning, Karen Armstong came on the radio taking about compassion and mother-love and how it enables mothers to put aside her issues and come through for her child, even if the child is a terrible disappointment to her later on. And wow, that's not making me seem terribly creative, so I'll stop now.

Varda had a crooked nose. 

For hours, I had been laboring over this blasted bust of the Star-kindler. Hours that now seemed utterly wasted. The bust had been commissioned by one of nobles of Tirion, more for the novelty of having something made by the wife of the Crown Prince, I suspected, than any true eagerness to own a thing shaped by _my_ hands. Perhaps it was this disquieting thought that drove me to distraction. The divinely beautiful face of the Vala burned so clearly in my mind, but I could find no way to translate that arched brow, the sweetly smiling lips, and those deep, twinkling eyes into stone. 

And of course, the nose quite escaped me. 

Every attempt I made to fix it somehow made the whole thing worse.

The whole thing seemed to me to be insipid waste of time, and dull to boot.

At such times like these, it was better to leave aside your work and just _do_. Anything else, anything at all. So, I left my oppressive studio, and took a walk in the garden. I ambled down the gravel-path, taking in the sights and sounds of house and garden, settling down for the night. Oh, and it was glorious night, identical to the one that had gone before it. 

I watched the sky turned softly silver. Not for the first time, I wished I could see more clearly the stars that should have been my inspiration. 

It was this way that I nearly trod on Curvo. 

Quick as anything, I picked him before he could dart away, or wiggle free. But tonight he seemed content to just sag into my arms. He was still very little, after all, and seemingly very tired as well.

“What’s wrong, love?” I asked as I surreptitiously checked for injuries. To my relief, I could find none. 

“Nothing,” he said, burying his head on my neck. 

“Has your father been...” I hesitated, strangely reluctant to stick my oar into whatever madness Fëanaro had come up for Curvo tonight. With every one of our children, he had been relentless in ferreting out even a inkling of the great talent that had made him so famous. In every one of them, he found talent aplenty, of course. But not _his_ talent. 

Well, except for poor Curufinwë, who was named all-too well. He suffered the brunt of his brilliant father’s fervent attention. 

Curvo just shook his head, and still looked woeful. I pushed the hair from his sweat-slick forehead, thought suddenly of Fëanaro, the desolate child, left so long ago without a mother. And I held on to Curvo a little tighter, until he grew restless again.


	4. Come What May (Maedhros)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sons of Fëanor Card - Maedhros as a leader 
> 
> Endurance tames even the bold.

That was the problem with being the tallest, standing our from the crowd by a head. The nail that stuck out was the first to be hammered down, and so it was with Maedhros. But he refused to be hammered down. Beset by all sides; hounded by his never-satisfied brothers, never quite trusted by his allies (who remembered too well the taste of betrayal, cold and bitter), through all that, he persevered. 

_He endured._

It was only later, when too many defeats wore at him, did others began to wonder if this endurance was not itself a sort of madness.


	5. Group Dynamics (Maedhros & the evil servants of Celegorm)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sons of Fëanor Card - ‘the evil servants of Celegorm’

“But how could you do such a thing?” asked Maedhros, in what he thought was quite a reasonable voice. It was as if he was behind desk in Himring, wondering over some irregularities in the accounts, and not painted with blood -- none of it his -- and leaning on his sword, wisps of once-silvery hair still stuck to it.

“Call it a pervasive organizational attitude,” said one of them, a little unwisely.


	6. The Curious Incident of the Time-Travelers in the Battle-field (Fingon & others)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Genre Card - Scifi. 
> 
> Time-traveling shenanigans in the Fifth Battle.

 

And true to their (rotten) luck, the time-pod landed heavily, right in the middle of the battle. In the midst all that chaos, and heads getting lopped off, and all that smoke, and all that terror. They watched in horrified fascination as ragged bunch of elves and men fell back as a group of Balrogs advanced upon their rapidly shrinking phalanx.

(And the Balrogs were definitely winged, though of what their wings were made of, one couldn’t say. Of smoke and violence, perhaps, the Balrogs really were the thugs of the ancient world.)

“We ought to do something,” said Pip, looking around for a glimpse of one of the Sons of Fëanor (any of them really, he would have take Caranthir, even.) But it seemed they were at the wrong end of the battle for it.

(And he had been so looking forward to seeing Maedhros in action.)

“Protocol strictly prohibits any intervention in the established historical timeline,” said Kit stiffly. Someone had to be the one to say it, and it always seemed like it was her.

“Yeah, yeah, but -- KIT, LOOK.”

Kit, who had been pressing buttons rather desperately, gave a little shriek of horror as she noticed that as many as ten Balrogs had veered right towards them, circling them, whips raised.

The time-pod began to shudder and there was stinging smell of burning electronics.

Pip’s fingers dug deeply into Kit’s arm, and he hissed that _they were doomed_ and there was terrible moment when it seemed like he was right...

Pure terror took hold, followed by --- nothing.

The time-vortex rushed around the battered time-pod, and Kit and Pip allowed themselves to breath again.

+

As the smoke cleared at last -- and the Balrogs, impossibly, took wing, the lone survivors the elves of Hithlum took stock of what they could. Foremost on their minds was the condition of their High King.

“Wither my lord Fingon?” said one, looking around muzzily.

Another, sharp eyes trained on some distant glint of silver, shouted, “There his standard lies!”

And indeed, they found the High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth there. His banner was indeed all mired with blood.

He was as dead as chivalry.

Around him, there was a peculiar circular depression, which absolutely no one took notice of.

 

(But it was the same shape, in fact, of as a time-pod.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fingon’s death does not seem like a thing that would’ve been _closely_ witnessed.


	7. our song is the voice of desire (Túrin/Níniel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Card - Book Titles: _Skin and Other Stories_. 
> 
> “And Níniel took him with joy, and they were wedded in midsummer, and the woodsmen of Brethil made a great feast.”

The summer night tastes like wine on her tongue, it makes her head swim, and her feet unsteady. Tired of dancing, she catches his arm. In a tone that brooks no dissent, she says, “ _Come_ , husband.”

Hearing this, the others give a ragged cheer. All but Brandir, that is. But he and his sour face are easy to ignore. He is not an unkind man, just an unlucky one. But he does wear his disappointment like a second skin.

Turambar follows her happily enough, saying, “You sound so much like my mother...”

He pauses, sobering a little. “If only you could have met her.”

She stops, and breathes in. The stars wheel overhead in their steady course. It is a beautiful night, though there is a threat of rain.

Níniel says, voice halting but sure, “I have met her through you.”

She twines her fingers with his. “She would have been proud to have a son such as you.”

He gives a rare smile, and murmurs, “ _You don’t know my mother_.”

 “Perhaps one day, I will.”

 

Beyond them, there is a distant roll of thunder.

(It goes unheard.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** Reading back on this, I realize that telling your wife that she sounds like your mother may not sound too flattering (and of course, Túrin’s foot is always stuck firmly in his mouth) but it’s really the highest compliment he can give to anyone. Túrin **loves** his mama.  
>  (Even bad men love their mamas.)  
> (Ask Fëanor!)  
> (Oh course, if you did, he’d probably say, “How dare you speak to me.”)
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, there is a reason why Niënor _could_ remind Túrin of his mother...  
> 


	8. Metamorphosis (Elwing & the sons of Fëanor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of Verse Card - _I am the swift uplifting rush_.
> 
> She had only a moment to learn how to fly.

Elwing did not shy away from the edge.

How often had she paced on this patch of ground before, looking in vain for that tell-tale flash of white on the horizon? But she could not hope for rescue now.

(Her husband’s faith in eventual salvation had never been her own.)

She would face this alone.

Her pursuers -- more weighted down than she -- had finally caught up with her. They were indistinguishable from each other. Together they were simply the sons of Fëanor, the nightmares of her childhood come back for her.

(They were her husband’s kin, though there was nothing in them that she recognized.)

They spoke with dull voices, tarnished by an age of failure upon failure, of so much violence. This time, there were no flowery speeches, no attempts at reason.

(Reason had died, long ago.)

They said, simply, _give it to us._

_(Or die.)_

The Silmaril was heavy around her neck.

Dully, she wondered what had happened to her children. They had been running (oh, they were too young to run) and their small hands had slipped from her grasp. Elros and Elrond had been swallowed up in the murk without uttering a single cry.  

She thought of her sons (her brothers, her mother, her father, her land, her people, lost, all lost)  and her hands closed tightly around the jewel.

The taller one, blood-red and terrible, took a step towards her.

She backed away.

 _Please_ , he said.

But there was no time for mercy now.

She turned and stepped off the cliff and waited for the violence of cold water against a human body, of shredding rocks on human skin. But impact never came. Instead she found  herself shrinking and changing, skin prickling and sprouting feathers, fingers spreading and branching out to into a web of hollow bones and muscle and forming into great white wings.

Her scream turned into a cry of a bird.

She had only a moment to learn how to fly.

Elwing was caught in a swift uplifting rush of wind that took her high above the burning Havens. She flew above the pitch-black waters of the harbor.

 

Away, away, she dared not look back.


	9. the love you lost (with her skin so fair) (Celegorm/Aredhel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt - Book Titles: The Book-Thief, Sons of Fëanor: Celegorm and Aredhel 
> 
> Skirting the apocalypse at teatime.

Aredhel can feel the end times nipping at her newly embodied heels.    
  
Dressed to kill (no longer literally, but then again you never know) in her trademark silver and white (though it’s no longer such  _a fuck you_  to the laundry-people and her father’s carefully calibrated budget, thanks to the advent of modern dry-cleaning), and with red, red lips (she cannot ever, ever get the taste of blood out of her mouth.)   
  
Oh, she’s kept her taste for dramatics. They all have, it’s what keeps the family together.    
  
(And apart.)    
  
And finally, he arrives and barks an order to the waiter (he tries and fails to order for her.) Then, he insinuates five insulting things about her side of the family and waits for her to get angry.    
  
She sips her tea.    
  
He presents himself to her, an open book from which she may read. But he is a book that she’s read a thousand times before (and stolen a few times, scribbled at the margins so everyone who came after would know what she had done) and so she yawns (he looks insulted) and says, “You’ve changed your hair.”    
  
He says, tiredly, that he had grown sick of controversy.    
  
“Your hair, of course, is the most important thing.”    
  
He’s happy to ignore her.    
  
They pointedly do not discuss: deaths (his and hers), faithful-faithless dogs, runaway princesses, dark husbands, disappointing sons, hidden cities (also his and hers), ill-timed hunting expeditions, burned ships, and, most of all, they do not discuss brothers  _or_  fathers.    
  
It turns out they do not, then, have much to talk about.    
  
“You’re looking good,” he says (licks his lips, he is so  _obvious_ .)    
  
She rolls her eyes, but she is not dealing with this  _shit_  again.    
  
  
But she lets him do it. After all, it’s harmless enough.    
  
  
  
Then again, she has always measured  _harm_  differently than other people. 


	10. Waves (Maglor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used: Book Titles - The wave in the mind, Sons of Fëanor - Maglor in the Fourth Age, TV Tropes - Kill It With Fire
> 
> “And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret besides the waves.”  
> 

“ _Do you talk to birds?_ Do you sing to them? I’ve heard you sing. Will you sing to me?” The boy was full of questions, though he did not always wait for an answer. As soon as he had found a stranger on the shore -- he had asked in an awed voice, “Have you always lived alone? Do you eat only fish?”

This was a strange country, baked dry and then lashed with rains, a country where they spoke a language that bore only a passing resemblance to the ones he knew. No one here had knew who he was, what he had done.

His history was wrecked, buried under deep water.

He wandered, often lonely, mostly unmolested. But he was ever watchful of torches, of voices raised in anger. The irony of this has worn away to nothing. He suspected it was no longer be relevant.

Now, he was bothered by a nut-brown boy, who did not seem to care that he wished to mourn _in peace._

“I can sing,” the boy said, and began to hum a tuneless song that filtered through the gap between his teeth.

“Your mother will be worried --”

The boy scrabbled over the rocks over Maglor’s head, crowing over a shiny shell. “No mother. No father. Only an uncle, fat and stupid.” He threw the shell into the water, delighted by the splash.

“Oh, I --”

Maglor drew a breath.

The waves lapped lapped at the sandy shore. The water was warm here, a vivid blue that hurt his eyes. Sometimes he plunged his hand into it, like a warm salt bath, and for a moment, the dull burning eased.

“I could teach you a song that has never been heard on this shore,” he said, finally. The air around him shivered, the wind held its breath.

(Or so he imagined.)

The boy whooped in triumph, startling the gulls into flight.  



	11. No Smoke without Fire (Maedhros)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sons of Fëanor - ‘Maedhros alone stood aside.’

_I was like smoke without the fire._

He watched the ships on the beach at Losgar. Through the night — for it was always night now — the light from the fire must have been visible for miles around. It must have been visible across the sea. Bitterly, he wondered if one he had fought for had seen the flames by now. 

He had lost so badly...

But these were useless thoughts. He straightened, and resolved not to think them, not then, not there. He felt ridiculously exposed, trod into the dirt. He had been humiliated that day, in more ways than one. 

And then his brother, Macalaurë, started to sing. His song was terrible in its beauty, crackling and roaring to life. One by one, they joined in song. They were very proud, his brothers, as they sang this hymn to destruction with such strength.

 

Maitimo supposed that his brother, closest to him in age and experience, was in his heart a performer, and could not help but recognize this moment as rife with artistic possibilities. 

(Art, and artists, after all, could sometimes be quite heartless.) 

_None of us here can help our natures,_ he thought, as the music swelled and crashed into his ears. 

+

 

The blame rested with his father and himself, between the two of them. Fëanáro had retreated back to his quarters, declaring now their work could truly beginning. 

Maitimo did not retreat. He stood still and — brooded. 

(He was to discover that he was phenomenally good at it, but not before time.) 

His thought gathered at a furious pace. _Am I not the eldest of my brothers? Nelyafinwë is my father-name indeed, though it is rarely used. I am the Third Finwë, and second- in- command — now that first has fallen._

He remembered his grandfather, always kind, always ready to listen. Always ready to accede to his father’s wishes. At the time, he had not thought much of it. He had been young, and believed his father could do no wrong. Love was a kind of blindness, and in the later years, his grandfather had been very blind indeed. Between his father and grandfather, it was often difficult to say who gave the commands and who obeyed. 

No.

He pushed these thoughts away — disloyalty could have no place here, nor could doubt. It was an old habit, to banish disloyalty — to banish doubt in such a manner. 

His moment of rebellion had only been a moment — he had stood aside as the ships burned, and they burned still. His brief rebellion had done no good.

He had stood aside, he protested. 

It had done no good. 

His thoughts went out to his cousin, Findekáno — first to him, ever to him. He had tried to explain - to his father, to his brothers — what they owed to rest of the host. It was the wrong approach to take — their faces clouded, they disliked being reminded that they had come perilously close to losing, that they would have lost if not for the timely arrival of of Findekáno’s men. He knew this — he knew it, but still, he clung stubbornly to his own arguement, repeating it to anyone who would listen. 

_They have shed blood for us, they had come to our aid, they are as_ cursed _as we..._

No good. It had done no good. Despite the heat of the the fire, he shivered, chilled to the bone. 

 

\+ 

His inner turmoil was interrupted by shouts and the sound of fighting. Someone pushed to the front of the crowd, and Maitimo, who had truly stood apart, strode towards to the commotion. 

He reached out to grab the one who caused this turmoil — it was his youngest brother, save one. Ambarussa, who screamed at his touch. Maitimo did not know — did not exactly wish to know what was happening — but he knew enough to hold on tight. 

Ambarussa tore at him, and screamed. “We have killed him!” 

Realization dawned upon him, thunderous and terrible. 

+

All the (still-living) sons of Fëanáro were shouting now, grabbing at the surviving twin, each positive that it was not they who had thrown the fatal torch. Macalaurë’s hands were shaking, and Tyelkormo was yelling over the din, but he went unheard. Carnistir’s face was flushed as ever, blood-red in the uncertain light. Atarinkë was weeping, something Maitimo had not seen him do since his younger brother had been a little child.

One by one, they all fell silent, and watched the burned wreckage as it bobbed in the surf. The tide was coming in, the water sucked gently at their feet, and the sand giving away at their weight. 

There was no singing now.

Maitimo spoke at last. “I must tell father...” 

Ambarussa struggled away from his brother’s arms.

“No,” he said, “I will.”

 


	12. Are Not Found (Maedhros)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cards: Genre: Mystery, Snippets of Verse: Art’s hid causes are not found
> 
> What happens to little princes, lost in the dark woods?

 

**I.**

What happens to little princes, lost in the dark woods?

What about the repenting-despairing invader, too-tall  
(For most doors, and now for low-hung branches)  
And too-late (to prevent more tragedy)

What happens to him?

 

**II.**

He’s never seen them, the little princes.  
Are they delicate, bird-like, the grandsons of a dead nightingale?  
Insubstantial? Or are they more solidly built?  
Harkening back, perhaps, back to their mortal grandsire,  
Who, himself, came from hardy folk,  
Now disappeared from this earth.

Are they dark? Or silver-bright, like their mother?

Nimloth. Nimloth, that was her name.  
Why had they killed Nimloth?  
Because she had not fled like the rest.  
She stood by her husband,  
the fair-fool, Dior,  
And she’d died by him too.

 

**III.**

Gone, gone,  
Whispers the wind through the bare branches.  
The snow is deep and melting, treacherous.

The tracks are old, muddled.

He finds small footprints,  
Half a hand’s breadth long.

Only one set.

They go for a while, and then come to a halt.  
He finds a scrap of costly cloth, snow-white linen  
— It could have come from a little princeling’s bedclothes.

He finds nothing else,  
But, by then, he does not expect to.

 

**IV.**

The winter dies, and the earth reawakens.  
The snow melts, uncovers the rot.

Maedhros comes again to his brothers,  
Grimmer than before, numbed from his journey.

Of the survivors, only Maglor is brave enough to ask —

His brother only shakes his head.

 

**V.**

For some mysteries,  
The solution is always there  
And always unbearable.  



	13. I shall rise up, I trust (Andreth/Aegnor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Card: Snippets of Verse: _Time, which takes in trust our youth_ (W. Raleigh)
> 
> Though he was never what one would call _a deep thinker_ , he proved all too wise.

So she grew old and still more wise, her hair, once black as ink, turned white as paper. That was poetic excess, of course, for her hair was grey. If he were to grow old -- oh, perish the thought! -- his hair would have been white, but not hers.

Well, her hands were still clever enough to thread a needle, to tickle under a child’s chin, to write a letter. She did not write to him, for what else was there left to say? Her arguments, his defenses, were old now, moth-eaten. 

Years ago, in a passion, she had accused him of being afraid to love. Now, she knew that he had simply been afraid. And though he was never what anyone would call _a deep thinker_ , he proved all too wise in the end. 

Time battered on, careless of both disappointed love and over-cautious lovers. 

There was a breath of wind that swept through the room, carrying with it a faint tang of smoke. Somewhere, something was burning.


	14. Untitled (Maedhros, Fingon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cards - Last Lines: There wouldn't be any decent wine, would there?, Genre: Murder Mystery / Snippets of Verse: One must have a mind of winter 
> 
> Noir Silmarillion? Don’t mind if I do!

The eldest was a cool customer, unflappable, you might say.

He was smoking quite calmly through the questioning, giving yes or no answers in an unhurried way, like he hadn’t had the shock of his life, finding his grandfather like that. I’ve seen the pictures, of course, and it was cruel thing to have happen to the old man, who had no known enemies, as far as I could see. 

His murderer had quite literally crushed the life out of him. 

It would have taken a cold heart, and mind like winter, to strike down someone down like that.

But time was up -- 

“You may go,” I said, though he was off before I even finished speaking. 

Someone on the other side of the door exclaimed, “You look like you could use a drink.” 

I’m not above eavesdropping, not at all.

Nelyafinwë said that he’d want some stronger stuff before he could go meet his father. His companion, I guessed, was his cousin, Findekáno. The latter always seemed to be where Nelyafinwë was. 

Very suspicious.


	15. Not Taken (Roads) (Maglor, Daeron)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cards - Last Lines: _____ was alive, but taken by the Enemy, Book Titles: Dead poets society
> 
> Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...

Two dead poets walk down the road, saying nothing. They are very ragged, and very pitiful to look at. They do not stand out. The roads are choked with refugees of all kinds, now that the war is over. 

(Nevermind which one, take your pick.)

Once, there was a great deal of difference between them - families, nationalities, loyalties, responsibilities, and deaths. (Oh yes, deaths, these travellers are no innocents.) 

The refuge of time is little comfort. The two have very long memories, forgetting nothing. 

A fork in the road. 

One says to the other, mournfully, “Will we ...?” 

He is answered sharply. 

“ _No!_ ”


	16. Come With Me (Elenwë/Turgon, Fingon/Maedhros, Elwing/Eärendil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cards - Last Lines: I'll come with you, Genre: Tragedy

**I.**

“I’ll come with you,” she said, as if it were already decided.

Her husband harrumped, looking quite put out. “It won’t take that long. If only those hot headed idiots would petition the Valar properly...”

Elenwë hushed him. “Quiet, Itarillë is sleeping...”

 

**II.**

“Why have you come?”

Maedhros blinked at the sudden shadow. His voice was paper-thin. 

“Because I could not let you leave me behind,” said Fingon. “Again.”

 

**III.**

“Why can’t I come with you?”

Elwing was no mariner, nor did she wish to be, but she chafed against these long separations.

“Who would look after our sons, our people?” Eärendil asked in a reasonable voice.

Elwing clasped her chest, where the Silmaril should be, and frowned.


	17. Poison Under His Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Card - Book Titles: Tongues of Serpents

His uncle claims to love him,  
Seeing in him the vision of his beloved sister,  
Willful, unlucky Aredhel

 _A free spirit_ , Turgon says, in a mournful voice.

(But if his uncle loves him so, why give him   
_The Sable Mole?_ Not very flattering, is it?) 

His cousin, sweet Celebrindal, does _not._  
She holds her breath when he goes by,  
Looks panicked when he wants to converse.

Oh, no, no, no, Cousin. I do not need -- this.  
She holds out the (silver, snapping) contraption  
He has made for her.  
 _But it can --  
_ No!

He thinks she is the most beautiful,  
The most pure, the more wonderful girl in the world  
Sparkling, brilliant, _icy..._  
Oh, Idril, Idril, be mine!

 _There is something not quite right with that boy._  
She tells her friends.   
He’s a creep. 

Princess, you’re so right, says Glorfindel,   
wrapping his bright hair 'round his finger.   
Ecthelion grits his teeth and mutters,   
_I wish you’d tie that thing down._

But Maeglin is not without friends.  
There’s Salgant, of the Harp. And...  
Well, that’s all. Salgant, poor soul,  
Is the exception that proves the rule.

( It is no fun, to be so heavy and squat,  
Among the ethereal and slim.)

They sit in their own table,   
and glare at the beautiful people.  
Unpopular, they are a discordant note,   
in an otherwise harmonious tune.

Of course, Maeglin’s love turns sour,  
Turns poison -- under his lips,  
Which are turned, always, into a sneer. 

And so, there it is. A sharp glance,   
A serpent's tongue, a credulous king. 

Oh, but wait!

Someone is knocking on the door. Visitors!   
Here? How did they find us?  
Gondolin shivers in her marble coat.

Destiny creaks into action.


End file.
